Five Idiots That Seriously Piss Agent Casey Off
by hiding duh
Summary: Sarah/Casey. Mostly, the leprechaun.


**Title**: Five Idiots That Seriously Piss Agent John Casey Off  
**Fandom**: Chuck  
**Characters**: slight Sarah/Casey  
**Summary**: Mostly, the leprechaun.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Word Count**: 948  
**For**: Jen

i

The leprechaun pisses Casey off.

He's there when Casey goes to clock out, hobo beard flecked with pork rinds.

"I saw," he announces suspiciously, sliding off a desk.

Casey's fingers itch. Advancing, he grits out a terse, "Saw what, troll?"

The leprechaun hops back, shaking his half-empty bag of rinds. "That guy today. You didn't honor his coupon. That's bad customer service." He paws at the crumbs on the bottom, adding a muffled, "Don't you want your bonus this week? To buy... whatever it is that robots eat. Babies?"

Casey's eyes flick over the tall metal shelf by the emergency exit.

It would take three point seven seconds to hang the idiot off it.

"Casey. _No_," Chuck tells him in passing.

Scowling, Casey lowers his arm. 

"Well, then," he nods instead, mouth twitching momentarily. "We received a new shipment of ..._DOA Xtreme Beach Volleyball_. In the back. Want to help me inventory?"

The leprechaun bounces off. "Do I!"

Smirking, Casey cracks his knuckles and follows.

ii

Sometimes, Casey has to check Larkin's file.

Rogue or not, the idiot should be dead.

Though, of course, there's _dead_ and... _Ilsa-dead_. And while Larkin gets to go off crashing Peruvian embassies and Ilsa has to go date impotent Russians, Casey's stuck in Awesome Land, mourning his Crown Vic.

"You were awful quick to shoot him," General Beckman's assistant tells him before scurrying away with the remainder of the files. "Twice."

Casey grunts in response, flipping through a thick folder.

_Larkin, Bryce: deceased._

Oddly, this sounds like a challenge to Casey, and even though he's violently allergic to the CIA, he's determined to memorize every line of this damn file.

If that includes repeatedly reading Walker's profile, so be it.

iii

"It's kinda cool," Chuck rambles nervously. "It's like you're a Mac and she's a PC and I'm your P2P or something." He pauses, looking contemplative. "No, that doesn't sound right. You're more like a PC, actually. With Vista."

Casey shoves him into the van.

"Or maybe you're a PS3 and Sarah's a Wii," he amends, buckling in. "Casey, where are you taking me?"

Casey says nothing.

"Casey, hey, buddy, I'm still not ready. Casey? Hey? 01101000 01101001?"

With a grunt, Casey eases off the gas. "Did you just speak to me in binary?"

"Maybe," Chuck grins sheepishly. "Please. I don't want to go underground."

"You won't."

"Oh, really? Oh, good, 'cause I was—I mean, uh, you had me going for a while there and—Casey, um, you're still driving. And not in a familiar direction. Casey?"

Casey cranks up the radio.

iv

So, yeah, she's not happy.

"How could you not _tell_ me?" she demands shakily, gun pointed at his forehead.

"Agent Walker," he says, tone neutral. "The new Intersect has been completed. Out with the old, etcetera."

She lowers the gun to the counter, leaning on her palms. "You could... have said something. I could have..."

He leans back in his chair, ice clinking inside his glass. "We played his mommy and daddy long enough. Time to move on. I realize you have issues with that, but that's your problem."

A roundhouse kick later, he's nursing a split lip, and she's pulling her hair up in a ponytail.

"_I_ have issues," she scoffs, holstering her gun. "You're the one moping around the apartment. You should be gone by now." Her eyes narrow. "Which you're... not."

Annoyed, Casey offers her a glare. "I signed a lease."

Slowly, she grins. "I know the CIA is far superior, but, what, NSA couldn't spring for an early termination?"

He cracks his jaw, rising. "Not in the budget."

Her grin grows.

Without a word, she hands him a gun, and then they're out the door.

v

He pisses himself off.

Breaking the chain of command is one thing, but letting Bartowski belt out Metallica's _Unforgiven_ is freakin' unacceptable.

"This has to be the worst song in the history of songs, ever," Sarah says, but her eyes are curiously bright.

From the back seat, Chuck goes up an octave, "so I dub thee UNFORGIVEN"

"Is this our punishment?" Casey growls, speeding through an intersection.

"This is your punishment, yes," Chuck admits, clutching his seatbelt as the van tilts. "Turn it up!"

Shaking with anger, Casey glances at Sarah.

Amused, she puts a bullet through the CD player.

"Oh," sighs Chuck sadly, then perks up. "I downloaded that CD illegally, so it's okay."

And though Chuck's new handlers are obviously shadowing them, and even though he can kiss his FERS goodbye, Casey has difficulty keeping his mouth from twisting into some grotesque involuntary spasm.

"Stop staring."

Sarah gives him a half-grin. "I can't. You're smiling. I think. So, clearly, you've snapped, and I'm mildly concerned."

The tires scrape against the curb.

"What?" Chuck asks, poking his head over Casey's headrest. "Let me see. I have to see."

"Chuck, no," Sarah warns, voice sharp. "He's an ISTJ and we _broke_ him." Off Casey's blank expression, she adds, "It's in your file."

Of course she's read it, he thinks, but says, "That's classified information. Which you're sharing with a civilian."

Her unconcerned smirk makes his blood boil.

"Well, okay, I have no idea what any of that means," Chuck mumbles to himself, "so I'm just going to be back here, not getting shot, okay?"

The van careens down a rain-slicked street, sloshing past a barricade. 

Casey curses.

Sarah looks at him for a moment, then, with a small nod, rolls down the window and fires off a clip, knocking down the roadblock.

Sirens drown out most of Chuck's rambling as Casey tears through an alley.

He'd be pissed off if he weren't so impressed with himself.

Or her.

_End_


End file.
